


The patron saint of lost things

by Fatale (femme)



Series: This complicated thing we have [6]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Multi, Self-Indulgent, wah-angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2013-05-28
Packaged: 2017-12-13 05:17:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/820438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femme/pseuds/Fatale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s value in how other people see you, he’s learned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The patron saint of lost things

The patron saint of lost things  
Neal pov, alludes to established Peter/Neal/El.  
PG  
WC: 420  
A/N: I bet Neal’s probably a maudlin bastard in the privacy of his own thoughts.

[Part six, if you're keeping up.](http://fatale.livejournal.com/tag/this%20complicated%20thing%20we%20have)

 

 

Neal knows he’s a good looking guy. Pretty. Attractive. He tests the weight of the various monikers on his tongue, drags them across the surface of his teeth. The shower’s running behind him, but he takes a minute to just look. The blue eyes he got from his dad -- he peers into the mirror curiously, searching for the hard edge in his father’s eyes, the dispassion inherited from his mom. There are small lines at the corners of his eyes that weren’t there two years ago and he feels a faint spasm of uneasiness.

He thinks of -- he thinks of Peter’s flat palms in his hair, tracking the line of his cheek from his eyes to his mouth, of Elizabeth’s small hand in his, her fingers trailing over his nose, pressing warm kisses down the length of his spine. He tries to see what Peter and Elizabeth claim they see in him.

There’s value in how other people see you, he’s learned. And if you take it to heart, fold it into your repertoire, one day you might believe it, become what other people want you to be.

Neal’s never been religious, per se, but he’s always believed in a higher power. As far as the ten commandments go, he kind of has a lousy track record. But sometimes he shoots off a quick prayer to whomever might be listening because it can’t hurt and he figures it’s not such a bad thing to hedge your bets. He’s a gambler at heart, addicted to the sick thrill of the unknown.

Neal doesn’t pray to the saint of thieves, because in his admittedly not well informed opinion, there probably shouldn’t be a patron saint of thieves and he doubts Saint Nicholas would have wanted to be associated with the likes of him anyway. Memorably, after an entire bottle of vino, a double-cross and a lousy night, he even vaguely recalls praying to the Blue Fairy from _Pinocchio_.

He once found a necklace of Saint Anthony on the street, slipped it into his pocket to look up later, when tucked in the relative safety of an indistinct hotel room under a fake name in one more stop in an endless string of faded cities that blur together in his memory.

He touches the cheap alloy necklace draped over the bathroom mirror once for luck before stepping into the shower. Just in case someone’s out there, watching.

The Patron Saint of lost things, Neal figures, might one day have mercy and guide him home.

 

 

 

 

The end.

 


End file.
